


Blue

by Owl_song



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: young!harry schoolfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owl_song/pseuds/Owl_song
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A one-shot in which a young harry turns his teacher's hair blue (as is mentioned in the first book).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote a while ago, just for fun. This is also on hpff.net but I thought i'd post it on here too, seeing as you guys are so much friendlier :P

He didn't mean to do it, he honestly didn't. It wasn't planned or anything - infact he didn't even know it was possible. It was just one of those strange things that always seemed to happen around him. Things he couldn't explain. Things that ended with the slam of a door and the slide of a locki, as uncle Vernon confined him to the cupboard under the stairs again.

Harry was in his cupboard now. He suspected he would be for quite a while; a week at least, he thought sadly. Though somehow it seemed strangely worth it. For one, he got to miss most of maths. It wasn't that Harry was bad at maths - he was definitely much better than Dudley - but it wasn't his favourite subject and this was mainly due to his teacher. Mrs Robinson was an elderly lady with a thin face and a shocking temper. She would get very angry when she thought somebody wasn't playing attention, and well, Harry's mind had a tendency to wonder.

It was a lovely daydream. The summer heat had lulled him into a barely conscious state, the soft breeze coming in through the window sweet and inviting as the sky beyond; a deep, rich blue you only ever saw on postcards, or the cover of the travel leaflets that sometimes came through the letter box. It was the sort of blue you just wanted to leap into, which in his mind was exactly what Harry was doing. Flying over the rooftops in this sea of colour, and now rising up, over the clouds until they became a fluffy blanket beneath him, ready to catch him if he fell (though ofcourse he knew clouds weren't really made of cotton wool, and couldn't really can't him, it was a nice thought). It reminded him oddly of that dream he kept on having, the one Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had banned him from speaking about. Though apart from the sense of déjà vu there was really nothing similar about them; here there was on flying motorcycle, and it was day, not night.

"Harry Potter!"

Harry dragged his eyes away from the window to face Mrs Robinson, the portal to whole other world he had escaped to snapping closed as his concentration broke.

"I will ask you again." Her double chin was wobbling ominously. "What is the answer to number 7?"

Harry glanced down to the work sheet he hadn't even realised had been placed in front of him. Every space was empty.

"I don't know, Miss." He whispered.

"What do you mean you don't know? Give me that sheet!"  
Harry reluctantly handed the plank page over.  
"YOU HAVEN'T EVEN STARTED! WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING ALL THIS TIME, BOY?"  
He shrunk back from the voluminous mass of coarse grey hair, like a thunder cloud, making its way towards him. Her eyes narrowed in anger, his wide in fright.

Suddenly there was a collective gasp. Mrs Robinson caught a look of her reflection in the window glass and squealed, for a moment sure she had gone bald, before releasing a horrified scream.

Harry gulped. Her hair was now the exact shade of the bright sky outside.

He had turned her hair blue.


End file.
